


We're Living in a Repetition

by shes_reckless (hell0lust)



Category: Green Day
Genre: Angst, Band Fic, Eating Disorders, F/M, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hell0lust/pseuds/shes_reckless
Summary: Green Day meets soap opera drama. Do you like over the top drama? Do you crave heart-wrenching angst? Do you like reading second-person narrative fics? This is the high school era fic that no one asked for, yet here we are. The story begins in September 1988, in Oakland, CA, focusing on a group of privileged teens and the three members of the band. Creative license was taken, obviously (i.e. I know that BJA and Mike are from Rodeo, all OC's are my own creation, etc.) A variety of relationships and interactions are explored, as it is not entirely about the main protagonist and BJA's relationship, though that is the primary storyline. A variety of addictions/illnesses, including but not limited to: self-injury, eating disorders, physical abuse, and drug addiction, are interwoven into the plot.





	1. Here We Go, Again...

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been toying with breaking out the old stuff for a while. The very first fanfic I ever wrote was a little Green Day fic called 'Redundant Contradiction' posted on a little site called Quizilla back in 2004 (God, I feel like I'm dating myself by admitting that.) Over the years, I've come back to that fic from time to time, rewriting it. Like when I'm hating my life at work and need something to cheer me up, or I'm really drunk and plug old flash-drives into my laptop. I sometimes forget that Quizilla really is gone forever and that some people have never had the pleasure of reading the gems that got me into writing fics to begin with. I've tried reading some Green Day fics that have come out recently and it makes me yearn for nostalgia... give me some good old fashioned, angsty early 2000's era fanfic, please. Seeing as my favorite ones are lost to the sands of time, I suppose it's up to me and my shitty writing to show these newcomers how it's done with over-the-top, soap opera-esque, 'be still my dead black heart' angsty bandfic. Enjoy. Or send me hatemail. I'm cool with either. I'm definitely too old to still be part of any bandom, but... ehh. Let me enjoy reliving my youth of writing fanfic in spiral-bound notebooks and rushing home after school to update online, using shitty DSL, and discussing plot ideas with friends on AIM into the wee hours of the morning. (Again, probably dating myself.) Also, please excuse my horrific use of second-person narrative; I swear to god, it was all the rage in '05. Back when you had to take quizzes and click all the damn circles to get the results, where the rest of each damn chapter was. I was going to attempt to rewrite this into my more mature, less awkward third-person omniscient narrative, but... *shrugs* I'm lazy/exhausted/having a nervous breakdown.

It was morning. As it was early September, light already flooded through your window, courtesy of the blinds you had forgotten to close the night prior. You groan, glancing at the wall, towards the clock. _Six A.M._ It was entirely too early to be awake right now. However, it was the first day back to school, and there were certain things you were looking forward to... or someone, actually. Pushing back your covers, you get out of bed, arching your back to stretch. You, Stacey Davidson, were beginning your junior year of high school at Oakland High. You glance around your bedroom; shopping bags littered the floor. Like most of your friends, you had been born into a wealthy family. Your father was a successful litigator, and your mother, a socialite from the East Coast. However, you were hardly a stereotypical rich girl. Yes, you might be clad head to toe in Gucci and Dior, but you weren’t a snob. In fact, you had developed quite the crush on a certain boy who would hardly measure up to your parents’ expectations for a suitable mate. You smile, thinking of Billie. As your father was a great believer in the public school system, you had attended public school all your life, in turn exposing you to people who were from a different socio-economic class than your own. Billie Joe Armstrong was one of those people. While hardly white trash, he was from the poorer part of town, raised by a single mother, and had several siblings. You had known him for most of your life, and by the time high school came around, had become part of the same social group. Your two closest friends were dating his closest friends. You hung out and partied together, but were never particularly close. However, you had been lusting over him for quite some time now. It had become painfully obvious to your friends this past summer, when you had insisted that they accompany you to every show Billie’s band, Sweet Children, played.  
  
“Your boyfriends are in the band, too,” you had argued, denying that you were semi-stalking Billie.  
  
When confronted about whether or not you liked him, you preferred to remain vague, stating that he was your friend, and while you found him attractive, it wasn’t like you were obsessed with him or anything. However, obsession was probably an accurate description for how you felt. Foregoing a shower, you simply wash your face and brush your teeth, then return to your bedroom to get dressed. You stand in front of your closet, pondering what to wear. After careful consideration, you pull a few items off of hangers and dress. You turn to your bureau, which held your impressive collection of undergarments and stockings, to rummage through the stocking drawer, in search of what you wanted to wear. You select a pair of black fishnet thigh highs with back seams to pair with your frayed denim mini skirt and black Vivienne Westwood black satin corset. Unsure what pair of shoes to go with, you avert your attention to your makeup. Shoes were always your weakness, you could decide on that later. You expertly apply your signature black smoky eye, then coat your lips with a nude-colored Nars gloss. You decide to break in a new pair of Yves Saint Laurent pumps, naturally in black. You glance at your wrist; your Cartier tank watch reads 6:45. You need to get going. You give yourself a final look-over in the mirror; white-blonde hair cascading down to mid-back, flawless makeup, a trim and perfectly toned figure, legs for days, further emphasized by your killer heels. Yes, you were ready to face school. Billie Joe Armstrong was going to eat his heart out when he caught a glimpse of you. Satisfied, you grab your large black leather Prada tote, ready to be on your way.  
  
Since you had turned sixteen before most of your friends, you already had a license and a car. Your father had oh so generously gifted you with a beautiful Jaguar XJS convertible, of course in your signature black. Backing out of your driveway, you head to your best friend, Crystal’s house, to pick her up. Crystal had previously had her license, but had managed to lose it several months prior, thanks to her nasty habit of drinking and driving. You find Crystal on her front porch waiting, smoking a cigarette. She walks over to the car, quickly getting in. “Only two more years,” you greet her, smiling.  
  
She grins back. “I know, isn’t it great? Oh my god, look at you. Getting all sexified for Billie?” she questions, continuing to grin.  
  
“Shut up,” you counter, moving on to your next destination, Tyler’s house.  
  
Tyler had been a childhood friend, and since he was nearly a year younger and was a family friend, you were kind enough to drive him to school. Before even managing to pull into the driveway, he rushes over, jumping into your car. “You know, there are doors for a reason,” you smirk, pressing your right foot on the accelerator.  
  
Tyler shrugs. “Psht, whatever. Afraid I’m gonna scratch up your baby?” he teases.  
  
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. And watch the leather interior, while you’re at it.”

After fifteen minutes of traffic, you arrive at school. Circling the student parking lot, you finally manage to find a spot. It would certainly be easier to park if you had arrived earlier, but why on earth would you come to school sooner than absolutely necessary? The concept was foreign to you. Locking your doors, you lead the way to the fountain, your usual hangout spot, to meet up with the rest of your group. When you arrive, you find your two friends, Brittany and Ashly, are already there. Brittany’s boyfriend, Frank, otherwise known as Tre Cool, was lounging beside her. Mike, Crystal’s boyfriend, was also there. And there was someone else… could it be? Yeah, it was. There stood Billie Joe, in all his glory. “Britt, Ash!” you scream, lamely trying to draw his attention to you.  
  
Yeah, it was a lame move, but who were you, a sixteen year old girl, to knock the tried and true method of garnering the opposite sex’s attention? The girls respond and quickly begin chattering away. However, you are barely listening, instead focused on watching Billie watch you. You watch him carefully examine you, taking in your appearance head-to-toe. _’Oh my god, he’s sexy,’_ you think to yourself, taking in his Black Flag tee shirt, paired with baggy jeans. “You dyed your hair, Billie?” you question, initiating conversation with him.  
  
He nods. “Yeah, got rid of the blue,” he affirms, running his fingers through his short black locks.  
  
“We should probably go put our equipment in the band room before anyone wrecks it,” he says, turning to Mike and Frank.  
  
The boys agree and head out, after kissing their respected women goodbye. You stare at Billie’s retreating figure, mesmerized. God, he was beautiful. But he could never fall for someone like you… could he? You sigh. “Oh my god, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Ashly questions, suddenly.  
  
“What?” you ask, your train of thought returning to reality.  
  
“Billie Joe. You’re in love with him,” she replies, laughing.  
  
“No I’m not,” you stammer, feeling the heat in your cheeks.  
  
Crystal eyes you warily. “Then why did we have to go to all of his band’s shows this summer?” she asks.  
  
“Um, because your boyfriend is in the band, too, duh?” you counter.  
  
“Still, that’s not a reason for YOU to want to go, plus you got all dressed up to come to SCHOOL. If it wasn’t for the benefit of Billie, then why go to all that trouble?” she presses.  
  
“Okay, so I have a crush on him! Christ, who fucking cares?” you scream, embarrassed.  
  
“Stacey likes Billie,” Britt teases.  
  
You shoot her a death glare. Tyler clears his throat. “So what, you actually like that guy?” he questions, sounding almost disgusted.  
  
“Um, yeah, you got a problem with that?” you snap, unleashing your anger onto him, for lack of a better target.  
  
“Ugh, come on. Fuck this, let’s just go get our schedules,” you order, motioning for the girls to follow.

After waiting in line forever in the office, you finally get your schedules. You hurry outside to the hallway to examine them. After quickly scanning the four sheets of paper, you hand them back to their respective owners. “Well, at least we all have homeroom together… and gym,” you note.  
  
You head towards your homeroom, where you find the guys sitting in the back of the room, undoubtedly up to no good. You quickly take vacant seats next to the boys, with you seated beside Billie. Trying to maintain your cool demeanor, you turn behind you, to watch Britt scold Tre. “REALLY, Frank? Smoking in homeroom? You idiot! Are you trying to get suspended your first day back?”  
  
“Eh, who’s gonna stop me?” Tre asks to no one in particular.  
  
“Gimme that, “ Billie demands, snatching your schedule from your hands.  
  
“Awesome, we’ve got a few classes together!” he says enthusiastically.  
  
“Really? Yay!” you shout, jumping up from your seat to give Billie a hug.  
  
Surprisingly, Billie doesn’t pull away from you, rather holds you tightly against him, deepening the embrace. A rush of dizziness overwhelms you. Breaking the embrace, you sit down, not trusting your own legs to support you. “You’re so damn skinny, Stace,” he notes, shaking his head.  
  
“Are you eating?” he asks, pointedly.  
  
“Yeah…” you mumble, not making eye contact.  
  
He, like, the majority of the people in this town, were well aware of your ongoing battle with an eating disorder, a fact that you wished people would refrain from bringing up so frequently. After all, you _were_ working on it. It wasn’t something that was going to magically disappear over night, that was for damn sure. Tears begin to well up in your eyes. “I’m doing the best I can,” you continue, your voice cracking.  
  
“I’m sorry, S. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” he comforts you, standing up from his own desk to pull you into an embrace.  
  
Choking back tears, you manage to squeeze back, before pulling yourself back from him. “Girls,” you begin, getting Crystal and Britt’s attention.  
  
“Bathroom?” you question, your snappish tone suggesting that it was not so much a request as it was a demand.  
  
“Okay,” they agree, standing up to follow your lead.

* * *

_~Billie’s POV~_  
  
You had arrived to school earlier than usual. Actually, _a lot_ earlier than usual, since you usually didn’t even roll out of bed until the bell signaling the beginning of first period rang. However, you could hardly contain the excitement and nervous energy pumping through your veins, which had woken you at six am this morning. You stand around the fountain with a fraction of your main contingent, namely your band mates/best friends, Frank and Mike, Frank’s girlfriend, Britt, and her friend Ashly. The rest of your group had yet to arrive. You tap your foot impatiently. You couldn’t wait to see her again. You sigh. As if on command, she appears, walking towards you. There she was, Stacey Davidson, dressed to kill in a mini skirt and four inch heels, her impossibly long legs encased in fishnets. Her small but perky breasts stood at full attention, pushed up and out in a black corset. You feel the hormonal rush in your innards; _god, how you longed for her_. “You dyed your hair?” she asks you, allowing you an opportunity to give her your full attention.  
  
Not that you didn’t always, but in a less overt and creepy way. “Yeah, got rid of the blue,” you agree, running your fingers through your hair.  
  
You smile. She was just entirely too perfect. A goddess, really. You feel a sickening pang in your stomach. Why did you do this to yourself? Stacey was way out of your league; your chances with her were a million to one. Sighing, you turn to the guys. “We should go put our stuff in the band room,” you tell them, desperate for an excuse to escape her presence.  
  
As you head towards the parking lot, to gather your equipment, you stare at the ground, the drastic change in your demeanor apparent. “What’s wrong, man?” Frank queries, noticing your mood swing.  
  
“I feel like… you know,” you mumble, not making eye contact.  
  
He and Mike sigh, eying you nervously. “Billie, do what you gotta do. We’ll move the stuff and grab your schedule for ya. Catch up with us when you’re good,” Mike finally says.  
  
“Thanks,” you reply appreciatively.  
  
You head towards the old wing of school, whose primary use was for storage and a few boring classes, like Latin. Or geography. Since the wing was seldom occupied, you usually came to the men’s room here to hang out when you wanted to be alone. You stand in front of one of the sinks, staring hard at your reflection. “Loser,” you taunt, making a face.  
  
You reach into your right pocket, gingerly removing a razor blade. “She deserves so much better than some fucked up loser like me,” you mumble to yourself, pressing the blade against the flesh of your left upper arm.  
  
You close your eyes, intoxicated by the rush of endorphins pumping through your body. This was your secret shame. The guys knew, obviously, but they didn’t know all the sordid details. This was your escape and you needed it. Oh, you needed it. Dabbing at the wound with a damp paper towel, you make sure that the bleeding has stopped. You were always careful to make sure of that, lest anyone find out what you did to yourself. Once you are sure that the bleeding has stopped, you exit the bathroom, to go find the guys.  
  
After wandering the halls for a few minutes, you finally run into Mike and Frank over by the main office, where they had successfully claimed their schedules, as well as your own. “Thanks, mate,” you tell Mike, grabbing yours from his hand.  
  
You follow your friends towards your homeroom, taking the seats in the back corner of the room. You vaguely listen to what the guys are talking about, however you are distracted by scanning the hallway through the open door for a glimpse of Stacey. A few minutes later, she enters the room, looking just as perfect as she had looked when you first laid eyes on her earlier that morning. She selects the desk next to you, carelessly dropping her presumably expensive bag to the floor. You hear Britt begin to scold Frank for smoking in school, then divert your attention back to Stacey. “Gimme that,” you request, snatching her schedule from out of her hands.  
  
“Awesome, we’ve got a few classes together,” you tell her, smiling happily.  
  
She offers an equally enthusiastic reply, jumping up to hug you. You shock yourself by boldly tightening your grip around her waist, holding her in a deep embrace. Finally, she pulls away. You notice she looked pallor. “You’re so damn skinny, Stace,” you note, shaking your head.  
  
“Are you eating?” you ask, pointedly.  
  
“Yeah…” she mumbles, obviously telling a half-truth.  
  
You immediately regret your stupid comment the moment you see tears form in her eyes. “I’m sorry, S. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry,” you tell her softly, standing up to pull her into an embrace.  
  
As you hold her, you breathe in her scent. You weren’t sure what perfume she wore, but it had a distinctively citric base. It suited her perfectly. She makes an excuse to leave, exiting the room. As you watch her retreating figure, you sigh. _‘I just hate to see her so sick,’_ you think to yourself, clenching your fist rather tightly. Suddenly, you feel a sudden pain in your upper arm. You quickly touch the spot where you had cut earlier. It seems that the cut hadn’t clotted properly, or had reopened. You were bleeding. _‘Fuck,’_ you curse under your breath. After a short while, Stacey and the girls return from wherever they’d gone. You wince slightly from the stinging of the cut. Stacey looks at you questioningly, but you turn your back to her. She must never know. This was your burden to bear.  
  
_~End Billie’s POV~_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I feel like parts of this will definitely show my age. Please keep in mind that back in the day, we totally rushed into the whole 'boyfriend and girlfriend' thing when we were in high school. There was no 'netflix and chill.' It was more of a 'let's start dating and smoke a lot of weed and bang while your parents are at work' kind of deal. We also drank a lot of Smirnoff Ice and Old E in the woods/in front of 7-11's. But anyway... it continues....

Exiting homeroom calmly, you quicken your pace the moment you set foot in the hallway, making a beeline for the nearest ladies’ room. Once safely inside, you push yourself up onto the heater and take a seat, burying your face in your hands. You sob quietly for a few moments, feeling safe enough in the privacy of the restroom to let down your front. You glance up at your friends, curious as to what they were up to. Brittany was staring into the mirror, looking tired and bored. Crystal was rummaging through her purse. After much digging around, she triumphantly pulls out what appears to be a pot of eye shadow. However, the gleeful smirk on her face assures you that it is not what it seems. Carefully, she spoons out a small amount of cocaine. Not minuscule, mind you, simply enough for a good bump to start off the school day. You watch with mild interest as she pours the spoonful onto her compact mirror, reaching in her bag for the package of razor blades she kept on hand for such an occasion. Expertly, she chops up the coke, making a perfect two inch long line. She then proceeds to snort it. Through a rolled hundred-dollar bill, of course. _Of course._ “Ugh,” you moan, involuntarily.  
  
You enjoyed the occasional bump at a party, sure enough, but the thought of making a daily habit of it nauseated you. You were simply too much of a control freak to so willingly turn over your free will to a substance. “So, why’d you have to get out of there?” Britt questions, finally speaking.  
  
You sigh. “I don’t know. He just, made a comment about my weight and it made me feel so… stupid. Worthless. I don’t know. I’m retarded,” you reply, tears beginning to well up, again.  
  
Crystal and Britt exchange looks. “Well… he does have a point, S,” Crystal notes, looking uncomfortable.  
  
“What do you mean?” you question, anger rising in your throat.  
  
“You have lost weight since we saw him last. Like, it’s noticeable. And it’s not like everyone doesn’t already know about freshman year…” she trails off, your death glare warning her that she was wading into dangerous territory.  
  
You roll your eyes. “Well. It’s none of his fucking business what I do,” you mutter.  
  
“Billie couldn’t take his eyes off you, you know,” Crystal offers, obviously eager to change the subject.  
  
Your demeanor changes instantly. “Really?” you question.  
  
“Definitely,” your friends affirm, matter-of-factly.  
  
“If you want, I could ask Tre what Billie’s deal is, see where his head’s at,” Britt offers generously.  
  
“Thanks,” you reply, appreciatively.  
  
“I guess let’s go back,” you say, jumping down from the heater.  
  
With a flick of your wrist, you open the bathroom door, entering the hall. You notice the stares you receive from passersby, but you ignore them. You had gotten used to the staring by now.

You return to homeroom, carefully lowering yourself into your seat. Casually turning to you left, you glance at Billie Joe. You notice him wincing, a grimace on his face. Puzzled, you question what was wrong. However, he merely turns his head the other way, leaving your question unanswered. _What did I do?_ you wonder, beginning to panic. In an attempt to divert your attention, you turn the opposite direction, looking to see what the others were up to. You watch silently as Britt leans over and whispers something to Tre. He nods eagerly, flashing you a grin. You return a smile, knowing that Britt had set her plan into motion. Two minutes later the bell rings, announcing the end of homeroom. You quickly jump up from your desk, grabbing Britt by the wrist, eager to get the dirt on what Tre had said. “SO?” you question, the second you are out of earshot from the boys.  
  
“He’s gonna talk to him,” she says, smiling mysteriously.  
  
You roll your eyes in annoyance. “Well, did he say anything else? Come on, you’re being vague. You know I hate that,” you pout.  
  
She smirks. “God, you always have to kill my dramatic buildups, don’t you? He said that Billie talks about you all the time. Like to the point where it’s not just casual name-dropping. Like he’ll have full on conversations about you. He won’t tell me what is said, though. Typical, isn’t it? Ugh, men,” she pauses, reaching for a stick of gum from her purse.  
  
“He thinks you’re hot, you know,” she continues, turning for your reaction.  
  
You feel yourself beginning to grin. “Well, that has to be a good thing, right?” you question aloud, more to yourself than to anyone else.  
  
“Duh,” Britt replies.  
  
You sit down in your first period class, English. Ugh, it was going to be a long day.

Finally, after four classes of assigned seating hell, you arrive to the solace of gym class. Admittedly, gym class wasn’t exactly _your thing_ , but at least it offered you a break from the monotony of sitting in a desk for eight straight hours. In the locker room, you change into your gym uniform, a rarity on your part. Although you were fortunate enough to attend a school where there wasn’t a mandatory gym uniform that had to be worn, you weren’t really keen on such activities as, _working up a sweat in school_ or _wearing sneakers_ , and thus rarely got dressed for the class, let alone showed up at all. However, as it was first day, you decided to suck it up and be on your best behavior. You exchange your skirt for a pair of navy cotton shorts, rolled up to an acceptable degree of shortness to show off your legs. Your corset is replaced with a white camisole. You can’t be bothered to remove your thigh highs. Scoffing the thought of wearing sneakers, you exchange your pumps with a pair of black Lanvin flats. It was close enough, you figured, shrugging your shoulders. Once the others are changed, you exit the locker room, entering the main gymnasium. You feel your heart begin to flutter when you catch sight of Billie. It was not that often that you saw him dressed in much else besides jeans and band tees, so to see him dressed so… uniformly, was amusing. You slowly make your way towards him, eying him up and down, so as to take note of anything you might have previously missed. “Oh my, Billie,” you comment, stopping directly in front of him.  
  
“What?” he questions, attempting to nonchalantly stare at your breasts.  
  
“I’m not used to seeing you dressed so… uniformly. Aren’t you afraid they’re gonna take away your punk rock cred, dressed like the rest of these sheep?” you retort, lips pressed into a coy smile. “Not all of us can depend on our charm to get away with dressing out of uniform, Stace. It’d break my mother’s heart if I were to fail gym, where all you have to do to pass is get dressed and show up,” he replies, smirking. You return his smirk, again giving him the once-over with your eyes. “You look good, Armstrong,” you note, not even thinking about the words leaving your mouth.  
  
“You know, you look pretty good yourself, Stacey,” he retorts, eyes firmly glued to your chest.  
  
“So…”  
  
“So… ” he mimics, putting his hands on his hips exactly the way your own were positioned, mimicking the expression on your face.  
  
“Oh fuck off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your left hand.  
  
Billie smiles back. “Stace… um. Can we talk later, maybe? In private?” he asks, speaking faster than his usual slow, lazy stoner drawl.  
  
“You know it,” you agree, flashing him a smile.  
  
With that, you toss your hair back, and begin walking towards Crystal and Britt, who had been watching you from several feet away the entire time.

“So?” Crystal asks, the second you are within earshot.  
  
“He wants to talk to me, in private,” you say casually, shrugging.  
  
Britt begins to smirk. “You know something,” you note, raising your right eyebrow.  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“Can’t, I promised,” she retorts.  
  
“Ughhh, you suck,” you laugh.  
  
Ashly approaches the group. “So, I say we go grab field hockey sticks before we get stuck participating in some shitty sport that we _really_ hate for first term?” she asks, looking round at you three.  
  
You nod in agreement. “Yeah, I think so,” you laugh, leading the way outdoors towards the equipment shed.  
  
You remain anxious throughout the period, careful not to expend too much effort, out of fear that you would mess up your hair. Or even worse, your makeup. “Why aren’t we allowed to wear sunnies to gym class again?” Crystal questions loudly, as you walk back across the field to return the equipment.  
  
“Because _someone’s_ father filed a liability suit over their daughter’s Chanel sunglasses being broken during softball,” one of the gym teachers, Mrs. Clark, responded loudly, mocking Crystal.  
  
You and Crystal exchange looks. “Whatever,” she mutters, tossing her hair back.  
  
You return to the locker room, where you change clothes again.

Once changed, you dart straight to the nearest full length mirror, to examine yourself. Did your hair look okay? Was your makeup fine? Were the back-seams of your thigh highs straight? You chew your lower lip nervously. You needed perfection. Right this second. “Stop obsessing over it, babe,” Crystal advises.  
  
You roll your eyes. “How can I? Who knows what he’s going to say to me?” you counter.  
  
Crystal says nothing, simply uncaps your perfume, carefully spritzing the nape of your neck. “Hold out your wrists,” she orders.  
  
You comply. “Now, take a deep breath,” she commands.  
< br> Again, you obey her instructions. “Billie Joe Armstrong would find you impossibly gorgeous no matter what you had on,” she states wisely.  
  
You nod. “Okay. I got this. I got this,” you mumble, returning to your belongings.  
  
You grab your bag, making to leave the locker room, then pause. You turn to face the others. “We have lunch next… do you think I should approach him first, or wait for him to grab me to talk, or…”  
  
“Just shut up and walk,” Britt demands, cutting you off.  
  
You nod. You walk to the cafeteria in silence, nervous energy pulsing through your veins. You spot Mike and the other boys seated at a table in a secluded corner. You quickly take seats, leaving you opposite Billie Joe. “Hey,” you greet him, flashing him a small smile.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
You sit there quietly, waiting for him to make a move. The others mill about, going to get food, or a soda, or whatever. You stare out the window behind you, focusing on the tree branches swaying in the gentle breeze. “Stace?” Billie asks, getting your attention.  
  
“You wanna go smoke a cigarette with me?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” you agree, standing up.  
  
“Ooooh, can I come too?” Tre asks, beginning to stand up.  
  
Immediately, Britt kicks him from under the table, while Billie shoots him a ‘not now’ look. You suck in a deep breath of air. This was it. “Anyway, shall we?” Billie asks.  
  
You nod, allowing him to lead you to the doors leading to the courtyard. Once outside, you walk several yards away from the door, so as to have some privacy. You sit down on a bench, which gave you a lovely view of… one of the anatomy dissection labs. You groan. “What?” Billie asks nervously.  
  
“It looks like Mr. Hughes is dissecting a pig,” you note, pointing at the open window.  
  
Billie begins to laugh. “We _would_ pick the bench directly facing dissection lab…” he chuckles.  
  
“So,” you begin.  
  
“So…”  
  
He pauses for a moment, thinking. “You know, Stace, we’ve known each other for a long time, right?”  
  
“Yeah, since elementary school,” you agree.  
  
“And, you know you’re probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he continues.  
  
“Really?” you query.  
  
“Yeah. And… Ugh. This is hard to say. I had this super corny, sappy, romantic idea in my head on how to go about this but… I know that that’s just not you. You don’t do sappy. Or romantic, if my judgment is correct…” he trails off.  
  
You stare at him, waiting for him to continue. “Um. Stacey, I’ve had a crush on you since I was like, thirteen years old. Probably longer. I just… I really, really like you. This past summer, seeing you at all my shows, it was so great. Even when we played to a sea of people, you were the only one I was looking at in the crowd. You have been on my mind like crazy. And I wanted to get that off my chest, for a while now… so… yeah…” he trails off, looking at the ground awkwardly.  
  
“I like you too,” you say softly.  
  
“Really?” he replies, amazed.  
  
“Really. You’re an amazing guy, Billie. And I’ve kind of had a crush on you for quite some time now. I just. Never knew how to come out and say it. I always assumed that you could never…” you take your turn to trail off, too afraid to finish your statement.  
  
“That I could never what?” he asks gently, placing his hand over yours.  
  
“That you could never go for a girl like me. God, I’m such a fuck up, Billie! You know! You saw what I did to myself freshman year. You see the way people look at me… like I’m some sort of freak. And you’re just so kind and funny and cute and wonderful and you’re talented and have tons of girls just throwing themselves at you… why on earth would you want to be with me over any of those other girls?” you question.  
  
Billie squeezes your hand. “Stacey. I know that you went through some rough shit. Believe me, I know. But you made it through. And all that proved to me that not only are you the most gorgeous and intelligent girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, but you’re also the strongest. Getting through what you did took courage and strength. I admire that about you. And please, every girl I’ve ever met pales in comparison to your radiance,” he assures you.  
  
“Oh, Billie,” you whisper, tears forming in your eyes.  
  
“I felt the same way, you know. That I wasn’t good enough for you, that I couldn’t measure up to what a girl like you wanted or needed from a guy. I mean, look at you. You’re you, and I’m just some burnout from the bad side of town,” he tells you.  
  
You laugh, shaking your head. “Come on now, Beej, you’re amazing. You’re everything I could ever hope for,” you tell him.  
  
Billie pauses, as if contemplating something. Then, suddenly, he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.  
  
After several seconds of locking lips, you pull yourself towards him, running your fingers through his messy hair. You allow his tongue to enter your mouth, deepening the kiss. You feel his fingers trace down your spine, sending shivers down it. Finally, you pull away. “That was… wow,” you say, at a loss for words.  
  
Billie smiles. “Yeah, I know,” he agrees.  
  
“Can I take you out this weekend?” he asks.  
  
You nod. “I would love that,” you assure him.  
  
“So… does this mean that you would maybe want to be my girlfriend?” he asks.  
  
You raise an eyebrow. “Rushing into things a bit, aren’t we?” you joke.  
  
Billie looks devastated. “No, no, I mean if you just wanna go on a date I understand, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot-“  
  
“Billie, relax, I’m kidding. I would love to be your girlfriend.”  
  
And with that said, you press your lips to his again. You remain outdoors for the rest of the period, enjoying each other’s company. Finally, the bell rings, forcing you to return to your studies. Your friends try to get details from you, but you simply smile and shake your head, denying them the juicy details of your tryst outside. You stare at the clock anxiously, wanting desperately for the day to be over with. Finally, the final bell rings. As you begin to exit the room, you feel a boy’s hand on your shoulder. “I’ll walk you to your locker,” Billie says, grinning at you.  
  
You smile back at him. “Why that would be lovely,” you say, squeezing his forearm.  
  
You casually toss your books in your locker; it’s not like you would ever even bother to crack one open. “Wanna hang out?” you ask him.  
  
“You know it,” he replies.  
  
Suddenly, you feel yourself being lifted up, tossed over Billie’s shoulder. “Billie, come on! Let me down!” you squeal, laughing.  
  
Finally, when you reach the student parking lot, he lets you down. “Jeeze, Billie. Everyone probably saw up my skirt! Some boyfriend you are, showing off your girl’s goods for the entire world to see,” you joke, smacking his arm.  
  
Mike and Crystal approach you. “Nice to see that you guys are together… finally,” Mike teases.  
  
You don’t reply, simply smile. “I KNOW! It took them long enough, right?” Crystal adds.  
  
You roll your eyes. “Don’t judge us… maybe we’re just shy,” Billie replies, speaking for both of you.  
  
You nod. “Exactly!”  
  
“Clueless is more like it,” Crystal mumbles.  
  
You shake your head. She was impossible, sometimes. “Do you need a ride home?” you question.  
  
She shakes her head no. “I’m going home with Mike,” she explains.  
  
You nod. “I guess I’ll meet you at your place?” Billie asks, turning towards you.  
  
You nod. “Sounds good.”  
  
You drive home in silence, brimming with anticipation of finally hanging out with Billie alone. Today had been too good to be true. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had such a good day. You pull into your driveway, seconds before Billie pulls in behind you. “Hey,” you greet him, walking towards his vehicle.  
  
Billie took a great deal of pride in his car, a black ’67 Mustang convertible. Truth be told, you did love his car… there was something so sexy about those powerful muscle cars. Though, truthfully, you’d take your luxury British-engineered vehicle over it any day of the week, thank-you-very-much. He steps towards you, lightly pecking you on the lips. “So, what do you wanna do?” you ask.  
  
“Well, I thought we could just hang out for a while. Then, maybe, you could come watch the band practice?” he replies.  
  
“Sounds good to me,” you tell him, smiling.  
  
“Want to come inside?” you ask.  
  
“I kind of want to get changed,” you elaborate.  
  
He nods. “Then by all means, get changed. Preferably in front of me,” he tells you.  
  
You shake your head, bemused. _Men_. You unlock your front door, allowing the two of you entrance. Quickly, you climb the stairs to the second floor, where your bedroom was located. Upon entrance to your room, Billie picks you up, throwing you onto your bed. “Mmmm, I like the aggression,” you tell him, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair.  
  
“Yeah?” he questions, biting your lower lip.  
  
_Ouch_. “Indeed… god, you’re sexy,” you blurt out.  
  
However, now that the air had been cleared between the two of you, you no longer felt shy or embarrassed. It was very comfortable, actually, just being with him. It felt _right_. After a while of kissing and groping and eye-fucking the shit out of each other, you finally pull away from Billie’s grasp. “Hold on a sec, I can’t stand having my skirt ride up my ass a second longer,” you explain, excusing yourself to your walk-in closet.  
  
You close the door, turning to the racks upon racks of your clothing. What on earth to wear?

After careful consideration, you decide that jeans would be the best option, as you were going to band practice with Billie, and they would likely be the most comfortable option. You select a light-washed pair of Diesel peg-legged jeans, which had strategic rips and tears in the knees and varying spots on the legs, pairing them with your black Lanvin flats. You pull on a plain black tanktop, electing to go sans-bra. You observe yourself in the mirror for a moment, gauging whether or not your nipple rings were too visible beneath the clingy fabric. _Fuck it_ , you decide, shrugging. You open your closet door quietly, so as to spy on what Billie had been doing to entertain himself during your absence. You notice he is standing by a collection of photographs pinned to your wall. You sneak up behind him, putting your lips close to his ear. “Pretty hot, huh?” you whisper, causing Billie to immediately tense up from shock.  
  
“OH! Hey, S. I… didn’t see you come back out. I was just looking at… yeah…” he trails off, cheeks flushed.  
  
You laugh. “It’s okay, Billie, I know me and my lovely friends look good in our bikinis. Those are from when we went to Tijuana last spring break.”  
  
You pause, thoughtfully. “Well, at least I _think_ they are. That whole week is kind of hazy for me. Tequila did me dirty,” you elaborate.  
  
Billie smirks. “Oh, I’m sure it _did_ do you dirty. I mean, look at you! You weigh all of a hundred pounds soaking wet. I’m amazed you can drink, period!”  
  
You laugh. “OH! Fuck, we gotta get going!” Billie says suddenly, glancing at the clock on your wall.  
  
“Why?” you ask.  
  
“We’re gonna be late for practice! And obviously if we aren’t on time, it’ll just turn into a wasted couple of hours getting high,” he explains, rolling his eyes as if that were the most obvious explanation in the world.  
  
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you tease, picking up your handbag from your bed.  
  
“So, shall we?” you ask, only to have Billie Joe swoop in, throwing you over his shoulder.  
  
“Ahhh, Billie!” you scream, unable to contain your laughter.  
  
He rushes down the stairs and out the door, finally letting you down onto your own two feet when he reaches his car. Shaking your head to settle your hair, you take a seat in his car, making haste, as it was apparent he was in a hurry. After several minutes of Billie speeding across town, you arrive at Tre’s house. You follow Billie to the garage, beginning to feel nervous. While you were friends with his bandmates, and had spent years attending class with them and going to parties with them, you had never really had any experience being one-on-one with all three boys at once. At least not without one of the other girls present, as well. You feel your pulse increase, your heart beating a few beats too fast, pounding against your chest. Though that _could_ just be your arrhythmia, one of the several medical ailments gifted upon you courtesy of your eating disorder. You bite your lower lip. _Fuck_ , you would literally kill for a Xanax right now. In the garage, Mike and Frank have already set things up, and were lounging about on lawn chairs. “Sorry I’m late,” Billie offers, lighting a cigarette, “we got held up.”  
  
You stand by his side nervously, unsure what to do. Following his cue, you light up a cigarette as well. You take a deep drag, relishing the calming effects of nicotine. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tre replies sarcastically.  
  
“What, had to stop for a quickie?” Mike asks, laughing, standing up from a lawn chair.  
  
You make a beeline for the chair, sitting down. “Jeeze, anxious to sit, much?” Mike asks.  
  
You shrug. “I’m tired. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is walking around at school all day in pumps?” you reply.  
  
“Oh deff,” Tre agrees, mockingly tossing his hand in agreement.  
  
“They just absolutely _kill_ my feet,” Mike adds, speaking in a falsetto.  
  
“Oh, I knowww, right?” Billie joins in.  
  
You roll your eyes. “I hate you guys, stop mocking me,” you pout.  
  
Billie grins. “Never took you to be the sensitive type, Stace,” he teases.  
  
Again, you roll your eyes. “I’m not. I just don’t like being mocked. I don’t see _you_ complaining about my wearing heels every day. So I don’t wanna hear a word from you, making fun of me for it,” you reply coolly.  
  
Billie mock-salutes you. “Yes, ma’am. Won’t happen again,” he assures you.  
  
You laugh. “You are such a fucking weirdo, you know that?” you question.  
  
He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “You love it, really.”  
  
You nod. “Yeah, that I do,” you agree, smiling.  
  
Appeased with Billie’s apology, the guys go about band practice. You watch intently as they go through their repertoire of songs. After about forty minutes, the boys are done practicing. “So, now what?” you ask.  
  
“Umm, let’s smoke?” Tre suggests.  
  
You immediately perk up. “Yes, let’s smoke, pleaseeee.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's not a true teenage angst-fest if there isn't a suicide attempt. At least I haven't started having everyone throw themselves off of cliffs, yet. That was my go-to back in the early 2000's. Unclear what that says about me as a person, but.... y'know. I don't even care if anyone reads this, it's just nice to reflect on where it all began for me with my writing and the over-the-top drama that used to dominate every fic I read/wrote/heard about.

After sharing a blunt, Billie drives you home. You exchange a quick kiss before dragging yourself away, back inside. As usual, your parents are nowhere to be found. This does not phase you, as you prefer solitude, and have long before learned how to care for yourself. You wander into the kitchen, although you were not hungry. To you disgust, you notice that your mother, or more likely, the housekeeper, has posted your meal plan on the refrigerator. You roll your eyes. _Stupid nutritionist. Stupid recovery_. While nearly two years had passed since your hospitalization and inpatient care for your eating disorder, recovery was an ongoing process for you. Upon dismissal from the program, you had refused to maintain the healthy weight range your treatment team had determined for you. At best, you were currently ten pounds underweight. At worst, twenty-five. It fluctuated. Right now, you were at the semi-healthy weight of ninety-five pounds. At least by your standards. You stare at your meal plan. God, you loathed it. You hadn’t been able to stomach meat in years, now. As such, chicken was simply out of the question. Growing frustrated, you dismiss the idea of eating all together, instead grabbing a diet coke from the fridge. Now agitated, you retreat to your bedroom. You lie down on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. You couldn’t believe your luck; you had managed to snag Billie Joe Armstrong. How the fuck had that even happened? You hear your mobile phone ringing across the room, in your handbag. Grudgingly, you get up to fetch it. “Hello?” you greet, answering the call.  
  
“So, how was sexing with Billie?” Crystal replies, not even bothering with a proper salutation.  
  
“WHAT?” you question, caught offguard.  
  
“How was the sex? Mike told me you guys were late for practice, and that you both looked all happy and glowing and flushed,” she continues.  
  
You laugh. “We didn’t fuck, Crystal. We made out and stuff. But the only reason we looked flushed was because we were rushing to get there on time, since we lost track of time. Besides… the only reason I’m glowing is because I _finally_ got the one thing I really wanted!” you retort.  
  
Crystal snorts. “OH, really? The one thing you’ve really wanted? Even though as recently as this morning you were denying your feelings for the Billie Joe?”  
  
“I’m shy. Shut up, C, you know how obsessed I was,” you retort.  
  
“That I did. So. Did you have fun at band practice?”  
  
“Yeah, it was nice. They’re really getting good. You should come next time, we-”  
  
“Yeah, fuck that. I lost interest in sitting through their band practices a longggggg time ago, Stace,” Crystal counters, cutting you off.  
  
“Of course you did,” you reply.  
  
“But anyway, I wanted to know if you wanted to do shopping in San Fran tomorrow after school? I’m in dire need of new Chanel,” she tells you.  
  
You laugh. “Totally, I wouldn’t mind having a little Chanel in my life. Plus I desperately need some new clothes. I wish we had time to go to LA, but Neiman’s will suffice for now, I suppose,” you note.  
  
“God, I love you. I’ll see you in the morning, Stace,” Crystal says.  
  
You say goodnight as well, hanging up. You smile, excited for the next day. Shopping was always a welcome surprise in your book. You lay in bed for quite some time, daydreaming, until you fall asleep, pleased with how well things are going for you.

* * *

September soon turns into October, which was now nearing the end. Your birthday was approaching, which you were particularly excited about. Things had been going so wonderfully for you these past few weeks. Your relationship with Billie was going well, as you grew closer and more comfortable with one another with each day that passed. School was boring, but tolerable, thanks to your close-knit group of friends. On this particular morning you wake up in a good mood, as you’d had a lovely evening with Billie the night before. You had gone over to his apartment to watch movies, and had ended up staying over rather late. You had only returned to your own home mere hours ago, right before daybreak. You quickly shower, then return to your bedroom to dress. As always, the decision making process is difficult for you. Finally, after much consideration, you select a pair of dark jeans, a black camisole, and your favorite black Lanvin flats. You select your large black quilted Chanel shopping bag, dumping the contents of your Prada tote into it. Once ready, you leave the house and head to Crystal’s. You pick her up and begin the drive to school. After a few minutes, she taps you on the shoulder. “What?” you question, tired and in need of caffeine.  
  
“Ummm, Stace… we still need to pick up Ty.”  
  
_Fuckkk_. You had forgotten all about him. You quickly make a u-turn, and head to Tyler’s house. When you pull up in his driveway, you find him sitting on his front porch, waiting. He gives you a disgusted look, then hops in the car. “Sorry, I was zoning out this morning,” you apologize, glancing at him via the rearview mirror.  
  
Tyler shrugs. “So you’re seriously dating that fag, Billie Joe?” he questions, bitterly.  
  
You roll your eyes. “You know, I don’t appreciate you saying that. Billie is really great,” you retort.  
  
Tyler makes a face, scrunching his nose in disgust. “He’s not lame, like you,” you add, rolling your eyes. “Whatever, have fun fucking that druggie boyfriend of yours, then,” he replies angrily.  
  
The remainder of the drive to school is silent. As soon as the car is parked, everyone quickly exits. Together, the three of you walk towards the building, as you were running late for class. Suddenly, without warning, Tyler turns to you, grabbing you towards him and pressing his lips to yours. In shock, you stand there a moment, trying to get a grasp on what is going on. Once you are aware of what is occurring, you shove him off of you, just in time to see Billie hurrying away from you. _Shit_. “Oh my fucking god,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut, “what the fuck did I just do?”

* * *

_~Billie’s POV~_  
  
Per usual, Stacey was running late. You linger by the main entrance, knowing that eventually she would show up. As you see her headed towards the building, you make to meet her halfway. However, you stop dead in your tracks when you see her friend, Tyler, grab her and begin to kiss her. _What the fucking fuck?_ Bile rises in your throat. You feel your heartbeat quicken, indicating that a panic attack was on its way. Hurrying as quickly as your body will allow, you retreat back to the parking lot, getting into your car and speeding away. You aren’t even sure where you are driving to, at first; all you know for sure is that you need to get away. It was the body’s natural response system to shock. How had they phrased it in biology? _Fight or Flight._ Yeah, that was it. How typical, that you would choose flight, you think wryly. You find yourself back home, your crummy one bedroom apartment. Shakily, you let yourself in, unlocking the door. You rush to the bathroom, not even bothering with closing the front door. Instinctively, you lock the bathroom door, then turn towards the medicine cabinet. You search the cabinet furiously, throwing its contents to the floor, as you look for what you need. Finally, you find a razor blade. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, intense hatred and loathing pumping through your veins. You place the razor against your left wrist, and cut. You follow suit with your right wrist, angrily slicing vertical slashes into your wrists, before bringing the razor up your forearms. “It doesn’t matter,” you mumble to yourself, overcome with the calming sensation of endorphins rushing through your system.  
  
“She doesn’t love me, anyway.”  
  
Your eyelids grow heavy, and without warning, you collapse to the floor, everything going dark.  
  
_~End Billie’s POV~_

* * *

_~Tre’s POV~_  
  
As you are just arriving to school, you see Billie Joe speeding off out of the parking lot. Worried, you go looking for Stacey, assuming she would be able to shed light on what you had just witnessed. You arrive at homeroom, where you find Stacey sitting at a desk, bawling her eyes out. “What’s wrong?” you question.  
  
“Everything,” she sobs, not making eye contact.  
  
You stare at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “So out of nowhere, my friend Tyler grabbed me and kissed me, right in front of the building…. and Billie saw. He must be upset, because he _bolted_ away from me, off to who knows where. God, he must fucking hate me!” she sobs, bursting into a fresh set of tears.  
  
Mike sits down at his usual desk, eying the unusual behavior curiously. You quickly relay the story to Mike, who gives you a pointed look. “We’re gonna go find Billie and talk to him,” you announce, standing up.  
  
Quickly, you and Mike exit the building, headed towards your car. Making haste, you drive to Billie’s. As you park, you notice the front door is ajar. _Oh fuck_. This was not good. At all. You enter the apartment, calling out “Billie?” as you search around for him.  
  
At the end of the hall, you see that the bathroom door is closed. Cautiously, you call out Billie’s name again, to no response. Gingerly, you grasp the doorknob, only to find it locked. You turn to Mike. “We need to break down the door,” he says aloud.  
  
You nod in agreement. Wordlessly, Mike rams into the door, sending it swinging open. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, staring ahead.  
  
There, in a puddle of blood, lies Billie Joe. “Fuck,” Mike swears.  
  
“Call 911,” he tells you, staring down at Billie, lost for words.  
  
Numbly, you turn around, walking towards the kitchen, in search of a working phone. You quickly dial the number, requesting an ambulance. Shortly after, you see flashing lights. Paramedics enter the apartment, efficiently strapping Billie to a stretcher, all the while barking questions at you and Mike. You answer to the best of your ability, horrified at this turn of events. You follow the ambulance to the hospital, gripping the steering wheel with all your strength. Once there, you are separated from Billie, as he is rushed into the ER, leaving you and Mike in the waiting area. You turn to Mike, idly tugging on your hair with your right hand. “Someone has to call her and tell her,” you note.  
  
Mike nods, looking grim. “Tre… I can’t. I just… I can’t say it to her. Can you?” he asks. You nod. You walk towards the entrance to the ER, where you’d seen pay phones. You dial your girlfriend’s mobile number, praying she would pick up, despite most likely being in class. “Hello?” she answers, picking up after three rings.  
  
“Britt, it’s me. Is Stacey with you by any chance? I… I need to talk to her,” you reply, not bothering to hide the emotion in your voice.  
  
“Is everything okay? Where are you, anyway?” Britt asks, sounding concerned.  
  
“I need to talk to her. It’s urgent,” you retort, tapping your foot anxiously.  
  
“Hold on a sec.”  
  
After a minute, you are greeted by Stacey. “What’s going on?” she asks.  
  
“Ummm. Stace. I don’t really know how to say this to you. We’re at the hospital right now… in the emergency room… Billie. He. He tried to kill himself, it looks like,” you reply, your tone low.  
  
The line goes silent for several moments. You clear your throat, worried that you had somehow been disconnected. “Stace, you there?” you ask.  
  
“Oh my… _fuck_. Oh my fucking god. Is. Is he okay? Is he going to be okay?” she asks, panic-stricken.  
  
“I don’t know, S. They took him back right away. He was unconscious when we found him. It looked really bad,” you tell her somberly.  
  
You hear Stacey sobbing. “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you when I get there,” she says, finally, followed by the clicking sound of the line going dead. She had hung up.  
  
_~End Tre’s POV~_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was one of those cool authors who was super personable and had followers who wanted to talk to them and could have all these fascinating conversations about fandom and writing and life and whatever else those folk talk about. Tragically, I am just as awkward and off-putting on the internet as I am in real life, it appears. So I'll just continue to carry on, posting something I originally wrote years ago to cheer myself up.

Immediately after hanging up with Tre, you grab your things, rushing out of the building. The drive to the hospital feels as though it takes an eternity, despite only being fifteen minutes away, as you are barely functional enough to operate the vehicle. You cry hysterically throughout the drive, having to strain your vision to see straight, so as to avoid smashing your car into another vehicle. Or driving off an overpass. “This is all my fucking fault,” you mumble to yourself, bile rising in your throat.  
  
You begin to feel faint, your pulse beating irratically as you pull into the Emergency Room parking lot. Quickly, you park your car, and rush towards the ER entrance. There, you find Mike and Tre waiting, both looking horribly upset. Mike spots you, and rushes towards you, pulling you into an embrace. You attempt to choke back tears, but fail. “It’s all my fault,” you whimper, in between sobs.  
  
Mike smoothes down your hair, trying to calm you down. “Shh… shhh…” he says soothingly, in an attempt to console you.  
  
Once your hysterics have quelled to a controllable degree, Mike leads you to a chair next to Tre. You collapse onto it, sapped of your strength. You squeeze your eyes shut, praying that this wasn’t real, that this wasn’t happening. You open your eyes again. Of course, no such luck. “I… I can’t even deal with this,” you mutter, a fresh wave of tears coming on.  
  
“If he dies, I will kill myself. I don’t even fucking care,” you whisper, to no one in particular.  
  
Tre and Mike exchange looks. You shrug. You were quite aware that your statement was worrisome, but what the fuck did you care? If you lost the love of your life, what reason was there for you to keep on keeping on? Nothing came to mind for you, at least. You wait for what feels like days, but what was probably closer to only two hours. Finally, a doctor approaches your group, to speak with you. “Well, is he okay?” you practically scream, far past the point of hysteria.  
  
“Mr. Armstrong will be fine,” the doctor replies, smiling at you.  
  
“However, he will need to stay here for several days.”  
  
“Why?” you and Tre ask in unison.  
  
“Because,” the doctor answers, “this was a suicide attempt, therefore we are required by law to keep him for seventy-two hours observation.”  
  
“Oh,” you reply, your voice void of emotion.  
  
“You can see him now, if you’d like. We’ll be moving him to psychiatric as soon as a bed is available,” the doctor tells you, obviously attempting to cheer you up.  
  
You turn to Mike and Tre, who nod at you. “Go see him,” Mike tells you, nodding towards the doctor.  
  
“Okay,” you agree.  
  
“Follow me, please,” the doctor says, headed towards the glass doors separating the waiting room from the emergency ward.

Quietly, you enter the room where Billie Joe was being held. There were three beds, each separated by a fabric curtain, for privacy. It seemed, for the time being, that he was the only occupant in the room. “Billie?” you whisper nervously.  
  
Billie opens his eyes, looking dazed. His gaze meets yours, and he gives you a weak smile. You stare into his eyes, hypnotized. _He has the most beautiful green eyes_ , you think to yourself. Assured now that he was awake and alive, your gaze trails away from his face. You take in the heavy white bandages wrapped around both of his wrists, all the way up to nearly his elbows. Tears form in your eyes. How was it even possible? How could Billie Joe Armstrong, arguably the sweetest boy you had ever met, do this to himself? “I’m so sorry,” you tell him, gazing down at your feet.  
  
“It didn’t mean anything. I don’t even know why Tyler did that.. he just grabbed me and kissed me and… I was in shock, it took my brain a minute to register what was happening and shove him off me,” you explain, tears trickling down your cheeks.  
  
“Really?” Billie asks.  
  
You nod. “Yes. God, Billie, yes. I care for you so much. I love you. I’d never hurt you, intentionally. And I don’t have feelings for anyone else. I don’t even know why Tyler would do that… he’s an asshole. I’m so sorry that this happened.”  
  
He looks at you uncertainly, and then smiles. “Okay,” he says finally, accepting your apology and explanation.  
  
Nervously, you chew on your lip. “Why did you do this to yourself, Billie?” you question.  
  
He sighs. “I don’t know, Stace. I mean… I’ve always suffered from bouts of depression, y’know, and seeing you and him just… pushed me over the edge, I guess. I wasn’t even thinking straight, I was on the verge of a panic attack, and acted rashly. But like, y’know, I guess I just figured that if I couldn’t have you, I had no reason to live,” he explains.  
  
You stare at him; the expression in his eyes assures you that he is quite serious about his words. This was no exaggeration. “Please, Billie, don’t say that. I love you. It hurts me so much to think that you could be capable of this… I mean. You cut yourself up pretty badly... You, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” you ask softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Billie agrees, “I cut.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t care what happens to me-” Billie starts, only for you to interrupt.  
  
“I care, Billie! I care a lot! I actually give a fuck! I… Christ, I can’t stand to see you hurt yourself,” you scream at him, a hint of hysteria in your voice.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he replies, sullen.  
  
You approach him, leaning down to gently kiss him on the lips. “I love you, Billie Joe Armstrong. Nothing is more important to me than you, and don’t you fucking forget it,” you tell him.  
  
He grabs your face, pulling you back down for another kiss. “I feel the same about you, Stacey,” he tells you, his green eyes staring adoringly into your blue ones.  
  
“I should go… I’m sure the guys want to see you,” you say finally, giving him one last kiss before returning to the waiting room.

* * *

_~Mike’s POV~_  
  
After Stacey returns from her visit with Billie Joe, you and Tre are allowed to go see him. You are relieved that he looks better than he had when you’d found him. However, he still wasn’t looking too hot. “How you feeling, man?” you ask, upon entry into the room.  
  
Billie stares at you for a moment, then groans. “Like shit,” he replies.  
  
You and Tre exchange looks. “So… do you want to tell us what the hell happened?” you question.  
  
“I guess so,” he mumbles.  
  
You sit in silence for a moment, waiting. “Well,” Tre prompts.  
  
Billie sighs, loudly. “Well, I saw Stacey and Tyler kissing, and I started having a panic attack, I guess. I just had to get the hell out of there. So I got back into the car and drove off. Ended up at home, then I just thought like… fuck, if I can’t have her, why the hell should I even continue to live? So I-”  
  
“So it WAS a suicide attempt!” Tre shouts, interrupting.  
  
“I mean, we weren’t sure, we thought maybe had just gone overboard with the cutting, Billie,” you explain.  
  
“No… it was intentional,” Billie replies solemnly.  
  
“But things are okay now,” he assures you, his tone more cheerful.  
  
You nod. “She explained the situation?” you ask.  
  
He nods. You shift your weight uncomfortably. “I’m glad that everything’s sorted out between you two, now, but I’m still worried. Something’s not right if you were that quick to… you know…” you trail off, unsure how to phrase what you were trying to say.  
  
Billie stares at you. “It was a stupid mistake, I know, but it’s not like something’s _wrong_ with me. I was just being stupid. It won’t happen again,” he replies.  
  
“Okay. Well, if you say you’re fine, then I believe you. I’m just concerned, Billie. Sorry. I mean, you’re my best friend,” you conclude, deciding it was best to drop the matter, for now.  
  
Billie smiles. “Thank you, Mikard. But don’t worry, I’m okay.”  
  
You smile back. However, you are less than convinced. Somehow, you had the feeling that this was only the beginning of problems that would arise.  
  
_~End Mike’s POV~_

* * *

_~Billie’s POV~_  
  
The remainder of Mike and Tre’s visit is pleasant. Once they leave, you shut your eyes, attempting to get some rest. As you lie there, your thoughts drift to your girlfriend, Stacey. _What was I thinking?_ you ask yourself. _How could I even think of leaving her all alone, without me?_ It pains you to think of hurting her, of causing her grief, but deep down you are well aware of the bottom line; if you couldn’t have her, life wasn’t worth it. Plain and simple. After a while, you start to feel tired. Just as you are beginning to doze off, a doctor enters your room. “Hello Billie, I’m Dr. Cohen,” he introduces himself.  
  
“I’m your overseeing physician here at Oakland Memorial.”  
  
You groan, dreading the inevitable conversation you know you are about to have. You sit up a little, so as to be able to make eye contact with the doctor. “What do you want?” you question bluntly, your voice dripping with acid.  
  
“We need to discuss the circumstances surrounding your suicide attempt.”  
  
“Oh… right…” you reply.  
  
“So,” he starts, looking towards you expectantly.  
  
“Well, I have panic disorder, you see. So, when I’m under stressful situations, I tend to kind of freak out, and can’t really control my actions,” you begin, racking your brain for an excuse to give that would change what you had done into something, anything but a suicide attempt.  
  
“Go on,” Dr. Cohen replies, nodding his head.  
  
You sigh. “Well, I saw my girlfriend kissing another guy, today. I got really upset, and started having a panic attack. I just sorta… lost it, I guess. I don’t know,” you conclude lamely, unable to procure a better excuse than the actual truth.  
  
The doctor nods again. “I see. Prior to this incident, would you say that you were suicidal? Had you been experiencing any symptoms of depression?” he asks.  
  
You shake your head no. “No, everything’s actually been going really well, up until now. I’ve been happy, my panic attacks have been under control,” you reply, truthfully.  
  
The doctor nods. “Okay, well that’s good to hear. However, under section 5150, we are legally required to hold you for seventy-two hours, to ensure the safety and well-being of yourself and others,” he concludes, writing something down on your chart.  
  
Your eyes bulge out. “What, Why?” you demand.  
  
The doctor looks at you. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but you really did a number on yourself with a razor blade, kid. Multiple deep vertical incisions on _both_ wrists. You were literally millimeters away from severing vital arteries. I’ll level with you, okay? This wasn’t a cry for attention like a lot of the shit we see here. This was a for-real suicide attempt, acted out by someone who obviously understands what depth and direction the slashing of wrists need to be in order to correctly act out a suicide attempt. We don’t have a choice here. We have to hold you. It’s not that bad. You can have visitors and make phone calls, and if you’d like, have someone bring you some personal belongings. We’ll monitor you, and have a full psychiatric evaluation done, then after the seventy-two hours, we’ll release you with an aftercare plan.”  
  
You remain silent, allowing all of this information to seep in. “Okay,” you say finally.  
  
The doctor looks at you sympathetically. “Hang in there, kid. You’ll be alright. Was that your girlfriend who came in to see you earlier?”  
  
You nod. “She’s beautiful. Don’t throw your life away over something stupid. Life can be really beautiful if you give it a chance,” he tells you.  
  
You nod. “Thanks.”  
  
“I’m going to give you a sedative, so you can sleep,” Dr. Cohen tells you, procuring a syringe from a locked cabinet on the wall.  
  
You nod. You watch as he expertly fills the needle with some type of clear liquid, then approaches you, releasing the injection into your upper arm. “Get some rest,” he tells you.  
  
With that said, Dr. Cohen leaves the room. You return to lying down, now alone with your thoughts. Shortly after, you drift into a calm sleep.  
  
~End Billie’s POV~


End file.
